


Skee Ball and Darts

by tarie



Category: Chasing Amy (1995), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Harry Potter/Chasing Amy crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron and Harry run into Banky and Holden at a London Comic Con.  Things quickly become complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skee Ball and Darts

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place about a week after Holden proposes the menage a trois to Alyssa and Banky back in New Jersey.

Up until now, the only pubs that Ron had ever been in were the Leaky Cauldron and the Three Broomsticks. He'd never given pubs much thought before. They were just somewhere to go to laze about and have a few butterbeers with your mates at. Usually the waitwitch was young and fit and if you ordered tea, she'd charm your spoon to stir for you and all that. Ron _liked_ the Leaky Cauldron and the Three Broomsticks. They each had their own look and feel to them and he felt like he belonged there whenever he found himself in one or the other.

But this pub he'd ended up in tonight?

Ron felt about as comfortable as he did in Potions class, which was to say that he wasn't comfortable at all. Not one bloody bit.

For one thing, it was a Muggle pub. He'd never been in one before and it was loud and smoky and the bar was brightly lit. For another, he was jammed into a booth with Harry. Well, that part wasn't bad at all, come to think of it. But sharing the booth with them were two Yanks (Muggle Yanks at that!) and Ron wasn't really in the mood for company. But it was his fault they were all there in the first place so he had no one to blame but himself. And, of course, Hermione would blame him when he and Harry returned to Gryffindor. Bloody hell, he shouldn't have talked Harry into sneaking out instead of going to Hogmeade like the rest of the upper years. But he had and they'd snuck out and through a series of misfortunes, he'd ended up with Harry and these two Muggles in this ruddy stuffy blasted bar. 

Two weeks ago he'd spied an advert in the back of _The Daily Prophet_ announcing that Richard Ronner, the man responsible for _The Adventures of Martin Miggs, Mad Muggle_ comic would be at some Muggle event called a Comic Con in London. He'd moaned to Harry about how how much he'd love to have the chance to meet Richard Ronner but that there wasn't any way that would be possible. Harry likely was trying to cheer him up when he said that they could buy a tonne of chocolate frogs and fizzing whizbees at Honeydukes to make him feel better for not being at the Comic Con. It was then that Ron realised that the Comic Con fell on a Hogmseade day, thanks to Harry, and thus a seemingly brilliant plan was born. 

Harry had balked a bit at first about the whole thing when Ron’d suggested it; he said they ought to go to Hogsmeade as it’d be one of the last ones they would go to on account of them being in their final year and that they could go to London any time after they finished school and as often as Ron liked. But Ron pointed out that he wouldn’t have the opportunity to talk to Richard Ronner, genius behind the best thing since the invention of Quidditch. He even gave Harry a bit of the pout and half-closed-eyes routine that sometimes got Hermione to stop prattling on at him about how he should do this and that and to fret over him instead. 

Whenever he and Harry got back to Gryffindor, he was certain that Hermione would ask them how they got there. Ron didn’t even want to think about it; it had been awfully difficult arranging various bits of transportation on account of the two of them being Harry Potter and Ron Weasley and all that.

And anyway, it was hard to think about much of anything at all with the blaring music surrounding him and the loud Muggles right across from him. Well, okay. So the one was bloody loud. The other was kind of quiet and broody. Like Harry.

“What the FUCK are these things?” the bearded one asked loudly, a sour look on his face as he picked a greasy chip up between his thumb and forefinger so he could study it more closely.

“Those are chips,” Harry said, exchanging a look with the quieter Muggle over the tabletop. The Muggle - Holder, Ron thought his name was - snorted and he couldn’t help but to snort as well.

“No they _aren’t_ ,” the loud one - Banky? (Merlin, these Muggles had odd names.) - said, rolling his eyes. He flung the chip down on his plate and stabbed at it with his fork, wearing a disgusted look.

“Yeah,” Ron said, taking a sip of his lager and pulling a face (it was so much more _bitter_ than butterbeer). “They are.”

“No,” Banky said insistently, pushing his plate of fish and chips further away from himself. “A chip, my friend, is a thin slice of potato that’d been fried in a fuckload of grease and it’s all crispy goodness. These” - he glared at the chips on his plate - “are anything _but_ crispy goodness. They’re soggy fat bits of potato slices that wish they could be a plate of fucking french fries.”

Ron’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What the sod is a french fry?” 

Harry shrugged. “Dunno.”

The one called Holder - or was it Holden? - spoke up. “Don’t mind him,” he said, scooting to the end of the booth so there was a great deal of room between them. “He’s trying to make up for the culture shock. I think what we call potato chips you call crisps, right?” He explained in further detail what potato chips were and Harry and Ron nodded.

“Those are crisps, yeah,” Harry said, taking a sip of his own ale. 

“Then why didn’t you just _say_ so?” Banky said loudly, taking up his mug in his hand and swearing profusely. “Christ.”

Ron didn’t get this Muggle at all. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure if this Muggle even got himself. 

Frowning, he slid his mug over the counter top in slow circles, watching the condensation from the bottom slide around. He wondered if the two Muggles had had some sort of row. From what he could tell, they were pretty close mates, like he and Harry. But there was something off, like they were trying to avoid being too close to one another or even addressing one another very much. It kind of made him uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable than he already was.

_Way to go, Weasley. You’ve buggered things up but good. And you never even got to see Richard Ronner. Brilliant day this is turning out to be._

According to the advert in _The Daily Prophet_ , the creators of Wizarding Comics would be at the Muggle Comic Con. The advert went on to say the date and time and how to get to the room filled with the Wizarding Comic creators. From what Ron had been able to discern from the advert, getting to the Wizarding section of this convention would be a bit like getting to Platform 9 3/4 at King’s Cross. Between table numbers 79 and 80, one was supposed to walk through the wall there and come out into a large open room full of tables and booths full of Wizarding comic displays. Simple enough. Or so Ron thought.

What the advert _didn’t_ say was that there would be what Hermione would call a militant sort. More precisely, a militant black comic book writer standing directly between tables 79 and 80 bellowing on about how “white folks always tryin’ to keep the black man down.” 

At first Ron tried to discreetly edge his way around the man, jutting his chin and giving Harry a look which clearly meant ‘follow me, c’mon, let’s _go_!’ But the man obviously didn’t like the fact that Ron and Harry were trying to move around him and get behind the tables, as he held his arms out menacingly and asked them if they felt threatened by Maleekwa as two ‘scrawny-ass white boys.’

“Er, is that a Potions ingredient?” Ron had asked, staring at the man with round eyes. He’d never heard of Maleekwa before, but it sounded like some dead awful something-or-other that Snape would require for a draught.

The man did a double-take at Ron’s response but waited until Harry balked to roar at them both. “No, fool!” he barked. “Maleekwa is the hero of _White-Hating Coon_ and it’s time you--” --and then he made a sweeping gesture toward the assembling crowd around them - “and I mean _all_ of you white motherfuckers - recognise that he’s _the_ strong role model for the young black man and we black men aren’t takin’ your shit NO MO’.”

Ron had made a mental note to ask Dean if he ever felt as though Ron had given him shit.

And with that, the man pulled out a shiny metal thing that caused the Muggles standing about to scream and either duck or run.

He’d never seen anything like the odd object in the man’s hand, but, judging from the way the Muggles were reacting, it wasn’t very good.

“C’mon, man, put that shit away,” an obnoxious sort of voice had called from behind him. When Ron glanced over his shoulder, he saw two men at a table bearing a banner that read “ Holden McNeil and Banky Edwards - Creators of _Bluntman and Chronic_.” One man was taller and had the sort of moustache and half-beard like Anthony Goldstein had taken to wearing lately. The other one was shorter and wore a backwards cap and a full beard. He looked a wee bit mental, Ron thought. Well, not as mental as the man waving the shiny Muggle thing. 

The man having the fit pointed his gun at the shorter man who’d spoken. Harry tugged on Ron’s arm and pulled him back. He gave Harry a questioning look but all Harry did was shake his head, his other hand reaching for his pocket. 

_Ahhhh._

Having understood at once what Harry meant to do, Ron’s fingers curled around the hilt of his own wand, pulling it out of his robe and training it on the man just as he began to shout about something called Black Rage.

The two men at the table just stood there stock-still and Ron felt a tension pooling in his stomach. He wasn’t sure just what that shiny Muggle thing could do but he reckoned it was awful and that something had to be done. And so, he transfigured it into an orchid and quickly re-pocketed his wand.

It had all happened so quickly - the man’s yelling about Black Rage, the crowd tearing off and rushing through doors, and the Muggle thing becoming a flower.

“Shit, what just--” The man crouched down on the floor, picking up the flower. By now Harry was kicking Ron’s foot, which Ron (correctly) translated to mean ‘you’ve gone and done magic in front of Muggles and they won’t understand and it has to be fixed!’ So, Ron did what seemed sensible at the time. He feigned tripping and knocked the man over, whipping his wand out and muttering an incantation under his breath that changed the flower back into the Muggle shiny thing. 

When it was all over, Ron was holding the Muggle object in his hand, Harry was trying to herd him out of the room, and the man was standing between the other two Muggles, looking dazed.

“Well,” said the taller Muggle wryly. “That wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

“Er....?” Harry coughed. “You mean that was--”

Before he could finish his question, a pair of double doors opened and in walked a few Muggle peasmen, Ron thought they were called. Anyway, they were all official looking and had badges and such. One of them took ahold of the man who’d caused the commotion by the scruff of the neck while the other took the gun from Ron. While the man was being hauled off, the shorter Muggle called, “Hooper, I thought your publisher cleared this shit!”

“Obviously they forget this time, honey,” the man named Hooper called back, giving an odd sort of salute as the peasman kicked open the doors. “We’ll have to have a raincheck on dinner, boys. Sorry about that.”

Hooper and the peasman disappeared through the doors. After the remaining peasman took statements from all four of them - although Ron and Harry’s stories had greatly differed from Holden and Banky’s - the Gryffindors tried to make a quick exit. The way the day was going, Ron wasn’t sure he and Harry wanted to risk seeing Richard Ronner after all. If the Muggles had been this crazy at a Comic Con, he could only imagine what sort of things would await Harry and him in the area with the Wizarding Comic people.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” demanded the shorter Muggle.

“Home,” Ron said flatly, taking hold of Harry’s elbow and turning him in the proper direction. 

“Ohhhh no you don’t.”

“Banky,” the taller one interjected. “Let ‘em go.”

“No way! No fucking way!” Banky said hotly. “They fucked up Hooper’s thing and now his ass is in some hoity toity British jail and he owed us dinner! And since they’re the cock-knockers who did it, they can fill in for Hooper tonight.”

“You are unbelievable,” the other one said. “Did it ever occur to you that this was an accident, plain and simple? That--”

“Plain and simple? Plain and fucking _simple_?! Did you not SEE, Holden? Are you BLIND? Oh, wait. Never mind. Of COURSE you are, you delusional pussy. You’re still mooning over that carpet muncher and it’s time you saw the fucking LIGHT, man.”

Ron, who’d been edging toward the doors with Harry, stopped dead in his tracks when he heard one man slap the other. As if on cue, he and Harry turned round together and gaped at the pair of Muggles.

“Ow!” cried Banky, rubbing at his jaw. “What the fuck was that for?!”

“You know better, man,” Holden said quietly. “You should know better.”

“Oh, FUCK THIS,” Banky huffed, wriggling his jaw. “After that fucking display the other night in the office? I should never have fucking agreed to come to Land of Tea and Fucking Dried Out Breakfast Pastries with you.”

“Don’t. Don’t even go there.”

“You’re the one that shouldn’t have went there,” said Banky in a low voice. 

This entire thing was making Ron _really_ sodding uncomfortable. 

“So,” Harry spoke up, looking from Banky to Holden to Ron and back again. “We, ah, know of a pub around the corner. We can take you there, since we messed up, er, whatever we messed up for you and your friend.”

“Thank you,” said Banky, throwing his hands up in the air and shooting Holden a dirty look.

“No problem,” said Harry. Ron wanted to say that it very much _was_ a problem and that they had to be getting back to school before they got hexed, but just as he opened his mouth to do just that, Harry stamped on his foot.

And that was how Ron came to be in a booth with Harry and two Muggles. 

A booth with Harry and two Muggles, one of whom was now pouring what appeared to be an entire bottle of ketchup on his chips.

Ron’s nose wrinkled in disgust; Banky was positively _drowning_ his chips. 

Banky, who’d begun to mutter under his breath and tap on the end of the bottle with a knife, stopped mid-tap and gave Ron an affronted look. “What?” he asked defensively. “Something the matter, Flash?”

“It’s Ron. And nothing’s the matter,” Ron shrugged, taking another swig of his drink.

“Yeah, well, why don’t you ask me then, hmm? Don’t be a me-me, man.” One side of Banky’s mouth scrunched over as he slammed the bottle back on the table. Beside him, Holden made a noise of disgust and Ron could feel Harry shift on the bench next to him. 

He didn’t exactly want to ask this Banky if something was the matter, not after the argument between Banky and Holden he’d seen back at the Comic Con. But it wasn’t as if he could refuse to ask him, now could he?

“Something the matter, Banky?” he asked slowly, eyes dropping to Banky’s plate. It was nearly entirely covered in ketchup, in one lone corner he could see a little bit of yellow-brownish chip colour shining through and that was it.

“Yeah, something’s the fucking matter, Ron. World fucking peace, for one thing. The Devils line up this year, for another. The latest issue of Batman, for another. They’re all SHIT. And you want to know what the biggest piece of shit is, huh?” 

“Okay!” Holden cut in, standing up suddenly. “We passed an arcade on the way up here. There was skee ball in the window. I think I’m going to go do that while Banky here unloads his baggage. I helped him pack the shit and I don’t want to inventory it.”

“You fucking FUCK,” Banky spat, half-standing.

“I’ll go with you,” Harry said quickly, standing up beside Holden. Banky looked none too pleased about that.

“Oh ho, I see,” he said. Ron wondered just what it was Banky saw but he wasn’t about to ask him.

“Just can it,” Holden retorted.

“Let’s go,” Harry broke in. 

_Always trying to make things right._

“I haven’t played skee ball since I was about eight. I only played it once; my cousin had to take me to one of his friend’s birthday parties and they had it there. I was pretty bad at it but it was fun, from what I remember.” 

Holden looked disbelieving and Ron could hear him chatter on about how brilliant skee ball was (whatever the sod that was) and how skilled you had to be to play it. And then the door opened and closed and Harry and Holden were gone. 

Banky made a crude gesture at the shut door and plopped back into his seat. “Fucking cock sucker man, I swear to god.”

Well. This was certainly a conversation in which Ron had no idea how to participate. He could think of nothing to say. So instead, he nodded.

“Darts,” said Banky suddenly, sucking back the rest of his ale and slamming the mug on the table next to the rather empty bottle of ketchup.

“Huh?”

“Do. You. Play. Darts?” Banky asked slowly, looking for all the world like he was using up his last bit of patience.

“Oh.” Ron frowned, thinking that over. He’d _seen_ them before; Dennis and Colin Creevey had a set. He never understood what you did with them, though, and it wasn’t like he’d ask one of them to explain anything to him. If he did that, they’d have thought he was their new best friend and ask him to invite Harry to play darts in pairs with them or something. “I reckon I could. I never have, though.”

“What?!” Banky asked, sounding more shocked than Holden had about Harry and skee ball. He slapped his hands on the table. “Come on. You and me. Darts. Right fucking now, man. You can’t go through life and not play DARTS. It’s like a LAW. It was nearly in the BIBLE. Like the eleventh commandment before God got an editor!”

Ron hadn’t ever read the Bible so this didn’t mean much to him. He shrugged and got up, following Banky to the back of the pub where there were a few dart boards set up. After Banky explained the rules of darts to him and showed him how to properly throw them and all, they started playing against one another. A round or two went by (in which Ron was awful but not quite all-out horrid), Banky decided they needed another round of ale because “it isn’t fucking DARTS in a BAR without some SERIOUS FUCKING DRINKING.” Ron’d had more than enough to drink with his own fish and chips but he had the inkling that Banky wasn’t the type of person to take no for an answer. And so, he’d throw a round of darts and toss back a beer while Banky took his turn. This went on for a few more rounds until something rather disastrous happened. Well, if his name had been Hermione Granger, it wouldn’t have been so disastrous as she could have fixed things in a tick. But his name wasn’t Hermione Granger and he was really rather pissed.

Banky went up to take his darts out of the board and was blathering on about something called Sega and he heard Banky say ‘GO’. And so he did. 

He threw a dart. 

He shouldn’t have thrown the dart, really. 

Or, at least, he should have waited until Banky removed his hand from the dart board, where he’d been pulling his last dart out of. 

Ron’s dart pierced Banky’s hand. Banky let out a string of curses and a garbled scream while Ron stumbled up to the board. 

“Oh bloody hell,” he slurred, flicking one of the feathers on the dart with his thumb and forefinger. That caused the entire dart to vibrate. Right in Banky’s hand.

“FUCKING _FUCK_! GET IT OUT. GET IT OUT, COCK SUCKER!”

Eyes widening, Ron sobered up just a tiny bit as Banky’s loud voice shrieked in his ear. Deftly (or, as deftly as his knackered self could manage), he plucked the dart out from that thin bit of skin between Banky’s middle and fourth finger. His hand free, Banky clutched it to his chest and jumped around, howling words that Ron hadn’t know even existed. Blood trickled down over the back of Banky’s hand and Ron knew they had to do something for it.

Screwing his eyes shut briefly, he inhaled sharply, willing himself to think clearly. After a moment’s pause, he reopened his eyes and looked around, stopping when he spotted the loo.

“In here,” he said, guiding Banky to the gents’.

Banky slumped against a wall, still holding his hand to his chest. Giving Ron a death-glare, he snarled, “Oh yeah, like THIS IS FUCKING STERILE. MY HAND’S GOING TO ROT OFF AND THEN I’LL HAVE TO HAVE A HOOK AND WILL I BE ABLE TO STILL INK? NOT FUCKING LIKELY.”

Quite frankly, Ron was getting a bit tired of getting bellowed at. 

“Will you SHUT YOUR GOB FOR A BLOODY MINUTE?!” he yelled back, reaching inside his jacket with one hand. With the other, he reached up and pushed Banky’s face to one side, covering the eye not pressed against the wall with his hand. “Now stay still and I’m going to try to fix it a bit, yeah?”

“What’re you doing?” Banky hissed, splaying the fingers of his injured hand out. 

“Just trust me, all right?” Ron returned, withdrawing his wand. Whispering an incantation under his breath, he lightly tapped the place between Banky’s fingers where the dart had pierced. A faint red light trickled out of the tip of his wand and went into the tiny hole in Banky’s hand. While he placed the wand back in his pocket, Ron watched as the hole shrank and shrank until it was no more. There was something of a scar there (which wouldn’t have happened had it been Hermione’s healing), but overall it wasn’t too bad of a job, if Ron said so himself. 

Waiting a beat, Ron dropped his hand from Banky’s face and took a step back. Banky eyed him cautiously, only daring to glance down at his hand momentarily.

And then his eyes narrowed. “How’d you do that?” he asked suspiciously. 

“Er...” Ron floundered, unsure of what to say. 

“How?” Banky repeated.

“You never told me what the biggest piece of shit was,” Ron said suddenly.

The mention of that had been the right thing to do, for Banky immediately dropped the subject and went quiet.

“I guess I didn’t,” he said slowly. 

For some reason, Ron wanted to know now. He hadn’t before but now he did. 

Banky might be loud and brash and said a lot of blustery shite things, but Ron felt, well...like he knew him. Like he could understand him somehow. 

Whether it was the alcohol or something else entirely, Ron wasn’t sure. But what he was sure of was that Banky told him exactly what the biggest piece of shit was.

“The biggest piece of shit is Holden Fucking McNeil,” Banky said bitterly. 

“He’s your best mate, isn’t he?” Ron asked slowly.

“Mate, like friend? He is. He was. I don’t fucking know,” Banky mumbled, pressing his hands against his temples. 

_Oh, hell._

The words and body language said it all.

And then Ron _knew_. He knew and he could have laughed at the irony.

“You too?” he asked quietly.

“Me...what do you mean me?” 

“You know,” said Ron in a low voice, eyeing Banky steadily. “You know.”

The door to the loo creaked open and Ron sprung into action. “Sorry, sorry! It’s out of order, move along, move along!” And with that, he shut the door and used the Muggle lock to keep any other intruders out. Pressing his back against the door, he met Banky’s eyes and waited.

For a moment, Ron thought he wasn’t going to answer him. He thought perhaps he might get punched. 

But Banky did answer. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Me too.” 

“But you haven’t–?” Ron started to ask, then cut off, as it felt really personal to be asking this Banky something like that.

“No. Yes. Kind of. I don’t fucking know.” Banky looked frustrated, running a hand through his hair. “It’s a lot of shit to work out. That wasn’t _me_. That isn’t me. I don’t know how to be like that, for fuck’s sakes! It goes against all standards and shit!”

A spark of jealous shot up from low in his belly. ‘Kind of’ was more than he’d ever got himself. He’d wished time after time for a ‘kind of’ to happen for him but it hadn’t. He’d wished for it and yet he was scared at the same time. What if he made an arse out of himself? What if he didn’t know what he was doing? What if it changed things?

“Standards are shite,” Ron replied, rubbing at the back of his neck as he studied Banky’s face. “And how do you know it’s not you till you’ve tried it? Wouldn’t it be worth the risk?”

“Don’t be giving me this fucking New Wave Jedi shit,” Banky said heatedly. “I’m not– just stop, man!”

But what if Ron didn’t stop? What if he didn’t stop and they didn’t stop and they figured out some of their problems together? What if they figured out some of their problems together so that they could get their acts figured out for their own respective problems. So they could get figured out and experienced.

_I am a Gryffindor_ , Ron thought as he bucked up his courage. 

And then he leaned in and pressed his lips against Banky’s.

Banky was still beneath him for a moment and then there were hands at his shoulders, pushing him back. “What the FUCK are you doing, you FAGGOT? Don’t you touch me, you cock sucking--”

“Shut up,” Ron retorted, gripping the wrist of the recently-healed hand. “Wouldn’t you rather do this kind of thing with me before doing it with him so at least you’ll not make an arse of yourself then?”

Banky grew quiet and shrank back against the wall as best he could, looking anywhere but at Ron, completely speechless. 

A beat.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice hoarse and full of more than a little wonder. “I would.”

“Me too,” Ron said softly, wincing at finally admitting to how he felt about Harry out loud.

It took a moment for him to get his bearings again but he decided to sod it all and just go for it. If this was to be a learning experience, it was to be a _learning_ experience.

At first it felt ruddy odd snogging a bloke - not because it was a bloke but because he had so much facial hair. It tickled when he tilted his head one way and scratched when he tilted it the other. But that was all right, because he and Banky were figuring out that snogging blokes was not more difficult than it was to snog birds. Their tongues touched hesitantly at first and then Ron squeezed his wrist and there was a Banky tongue nearly down his throat. He gasped, the sound lost in Banky’s mouth, and snogged back forcefully, their teeth gnashing together. His tongue ran over Banky’s teeth and danced with Banky’s own tongue while hands clutched at shirts and jumpers. And then there was rocking. Hips against hips, hips rubbing on thighs, hips rolling in circles against other hips all the while tongues duelled with one another and Ron’s pants became tighter and tighter. 

The hand Banky had been using to grab at Ron’s jumper released it and went up to his hair, fingers threading there, pulling on him.

“What?” Ron panted, pulling back from Banky.

“Don’t be such a fucking me-me,” he said. And then he leaned in and sucked on Ron’s lower lip. 

_God._

He sucked on Ron’s lower lip and Ron was quite sure that was a hand working it’s way behind the waistband of his trousers.

And he was _very_ sure that was a hand, large and warm, on his cock. Oh yes.

There was a bit of fumbling and the sounds of clothing being rearranged echoed in the tiny loo. Once clothing was moved about a bit, Banky continued to snog Ron, his hand holding both of their cocks against one another. Ron couldn’t help but to buck against him, his hand joining Banky’s. Parting from their kiss to take in new air, their eyes met and Ron nodded. Both their hands moved up and down their joined cocks and the sounds of moans and skin sliding against skin permeated the air.

Grunts and whimpers and moans and a chorus of ‘oh fuck- oh fucking hells- right there- right now- SHIT’ roared in Ron’s ears but he didn’t care. He and Banky were helping one another. They were learning. And by god, they were _coming_.

“Fucking fantastic,” Ron moaned as their warm release spilled onto his hand.

“Better than fucking fantastic,” Banky said, pushing Ron off of him and wiping his hand on the wall. “That was fucking PHENOMENAL. Don’t slight the power of my manliness, man.”

Ron snorted and rolled his eyes, walking over to the sink and rinsing his hands off. “How does he put up with you?”

Banky’s shoulder bumped his as he settled in at the next sink over. “Probably for the same reasons yours puts up with you.”

“Yeah,” Ron said slowly, thinking of Harry and wondering if he and Holden would be back from skee ball soon. “I reckon you’re right.” Pause. “Banky?”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry I buggered up your dinner plans with your friend.”

“No you’re not, you selfish fuck,” Banky laughed, zipping up his trousers and leaning back on the sink. 

Ron thought about that for a moment. Then he grinned. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m not.”


End file.
